


this is how we rebuild

by koalaboy



Series: Chastantine [1]
Category: Constantine (Comic), Constantine (TV), Constantine: The Hellblazer (Comics), Hellblazer, Hellblazer & Related Fandoms
Genre: Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Gen, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Institutional Abuse, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mental Institutions, Other, Physical Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychologists & Psychiatrists, Psychosis, chas is a good mate, chastantine, patient abuse, post newcastle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-11
Updated: 2018-06-16
Packaged: 2019-05-20 23:16:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14904056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/koalaboy/pseuds/koalaboy
Summary: John Constantine may have gone into Ravenscar Asylum as a broken man, but he left a shattered one. Luckily for him, Chas Chandler will always be there to help him.





	1. Chapter 1

John may have gone into Ravenscar Asylum as a broken man, but he left a shattered one. Fragile pieces of sharp glass heaped together with thin wit and an even sharper tongue, wrapped up in a trench coat. He smelt of hospitals - the wrong kind of combination of bodily excretions and industrial strength bleach. But today was the day he got to be released and so he smiles at his psychiatrist. and bullshits through an aching grin, that he feels ' _just **fine** , squire_'.

Truth be told, Chas wasn’t even aware what had happened to John after Newcastle. He’d simply dropped off the map until a month ago when he’d called him. He sounded tired, alone, and scared. Chas had only ever heard the man speak like that when he was confronting his father after a particularly bad night of drinking; even at eleven and twelve, they were inseperable. A scared John terrified him to the core; worse than any demon.

Chas pulls up outside the pick-up bay of the institution. There were no other cars and it rubbed him the wrong way.

“Not a lot of people leavin’ this place, eh?”, he mumbles to himself as he tugs his cabbie hat over his hair. He checks his wallet for ID and then starts the walk into the main reception of the building. The walls are a yellowing-white and Chas tries not to make the connections between old horror movie asylums and this place. After all, that was a bad mentally ill stereotype. He had thought John told him everything, but even growing up together John had kept secrets. Chas supposed there was no proper way to say ‘hey, mate, I see and hear things that aren’t there and not in the psychic way’. Sure, the anxiety and depression Chas knew about; he had coaxed a drunk John out of suicide many times over the phone. But this? This was new and slightly scary.

Chas clears his throat as he locks eyes with the catatonic nurse who manned the reception desk.

“I’m, uh, here to pick up John Constantine,” he says, “He’s getting out today.”

A spark of recognition flickers behind her lifeless eyes and she stops chewing her piece of gum to mumble, “Geez, are they really releasing that child killer?”

Chas’ fuse was short, but this snarky twenty-year-old held the key for his best friend’s release. He tries to be civil.

“They could never prove that. He just needs help. I’ll get him some a bit more... closer to home.”

‘Less fucking abusive’, he thinks to himself.

The woman shrugs, “He’ll be out in a minute. I’ll get the things he checked in with.”

Chas is pleased to see her go and he forces his shoulders to relax. He gets lost in his own thoughts while staring at an old painting of a the cliffs near Ravenscar. John had almost thrown himself off them. She returns with a cardboard box marked J. Constantine, the contents of which Chas was intimately familiar with. A trench coat, a tie, a white shirt with a stain near the left shoulder from an ink-spitting demon, black trousers, and combat boots. There was also various necklaces with protective symbols on them, all of John's piercings, and the silver rings John wore on occasion. Chas scoops up the box and carries it out to the car. Better to pass the time doing something useful than sitting in a stuffy waiting room with that bitch. He whistles an old punk rock tune to himself as he meanders towards the reception doors again. God, he hoped John was okay. He hoped that he wasn’t going to come out of this a drooling, mindless vegetable.

Chas shivers as he enters the waiting room again and impatience burns in his stomach worse than acid. He wanted to see John bloody fucking _now_! The woman at the front desk shuffles papers to get his attention and Chas raises his eyebrows at her.

"You need to get him to sign this. Mail it to his insurance provider within a week from today. It's all the out-of-pocket expenses."

Chas takes the forms, frowning down at words which he is sure absolutely no one can understand. They wrote it that way so you handed the money over without question.

"He, uh, he doesn't have that kinda money," Chas mumbles, "To pay, I mean."

She shrugs, "Then you better hope he has good insurance."

Chas clenches his jaw and stuffs the paperwork into his jacket. John didn't have good insurance, in fact, as far as he could tell, John was just scraping by when it came to his financial situation. He decides to keep the expenses secret from John until he was settled back in his apartment; it would be less stressful that way.

John is skinny, tired, and shaking as he makes the first few steps into the reception area. He's dressed in the white asylum uniform, has a medical ID bracelet on his wrist, and his hair is longer than usual. It's strange to see him piercing-free. 

"John!" Chas calls excitedly, which makes the other flinch.

Carefully, like a mother lion holding her cub, Chas coaxes John into his arms. He squeezes him tightly and doesn't question when John buries his face into his chest, taking comfort in his scent. Chas was, in John's opinion, the best bloody hugger there was, and he would be damned if he didn't stay in the taller man's arms for as long as he could.

"I got everything in the car, mate. All we gotta do is walk outta here," Chas assures him.

John lets out a shaky breath, his words even shakier, "Thanks, mate."

John spends a few more precious moments in warm arms before he braves the bitterly cold wind outside Ravenscar. The cold came as a shock and a comfort to his system after so long locked away inside. He breathes deeply, running his fingers through his hair, "Shit, Chas, s'good to be out."

"S'good to bloody see you again. I was... I was really worried, John."

"I know. I-I'm sorry, Chas. I wasn't in the right mind to reach out," John says, picking at his dirty nails and leaning against the cab for support.

He raises his eyebrows, "Oh? What's this? An apology now, innit?"

"Shove it up your arse," John barks, a playful grin on his face, "Jus' drive me home."


	2. welcome home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John comes home and Chas needs to talk.  
> TW FOR DISSOCIATION, SELF HARM REF AND DESCRIPTION, PAST PARENTAL ABUSE, SELF HATE ETC.

The House of Mystery welcomes John back like a snake slinking back into its hidey-hole. It’s doors, which always seem to take an effort to open, barely need their handles turned as Chas and John return.

“I already went through an' got rid’a any sharp things. Didn’t want you gettin’ any ideas,” Chas says. The kindness of the gesture is not lost on John and he truly appreciates it, though he can’t find the words at the moment, or likely, ever.

“An’ I cooked up a roast for ya. Separated it in’na little take away containers with vegetables. All you gotta do is reheat it. They’re in the freezer.”

John swears he’s about to burst into tears in front of his friend. How long has it been since he’s eaten a proper meal? How long since he’s _eaten_? He'd been so drugged up in Ravenscar, he hardly could remember. Though, that was for the best, he figures. There are some things you're better off not knowing. He rubs his thumb and forefinger on either side of his head, pressing into his temples. Earlier, electrodes had shocked his brain in the exact same place. It had done fuck all.

John stands in the kitchen for a moment more before he realises that Chas is still talking to him. He blinks in confusion as the fog in his mind clears momentarily.

“Sorry, mate. Off with the fairies,” he mumbles, dragging a hand down his cheek.

Chas stops. The amount of worry on his face makes John feel incredibly guilty, “Do you... need to take medication or...?”

John shrugs, “What I need is to get changed. I can’t- I can’t keep looking down and seeing my arms like this.”

Chas looks despite already suspecting what he's going to find, then averts his eyes in shame at his own curiosity as the other shuffles out of the room. John has always hurt himself. Even when they were kids in Liverpool, John would push cigarettes into the back of his thumb or the bottom of his hand to put them out. As he grew, he became more adventurous - more daring. Once, Chas had ripped the man's father’s old straight razor out of his hand and accidentally cut him in the process. He spent a whole night crying about it. It wasn’t from the shock; it was from the fact that John seemed to like it.

After Astra, things only got worse.

Now, John’s arms looked as if he had wrestled with a possessed cat and then matched it cut for cut. The scars were pink and fresh, raised so that they brushed against whatever fabric he wore and reminded him of his bad habit. Two long, deep cuts ran down the middle of his wrists. They made Chas uneasy.

“You’re angry,” John observes, returning dressed in a long sleeve punk rock shirt and navy sweatpants, “You wanna know why I didn’t tell you things were... _are_ bad.”

Chas sighs and pushes his built up anger out with it, “You’ve never been good at talkin’. S’fine. I’m just glad you’re alright.”

“Oh, thank fuck,” John says, flopping himself down dramatically on to the couch. 

Chas folds his arms, “We do need to talk, though.”

“ ** _Bullocks_**.”

He makes his way around to sit opposite John. He rests his elbows on his thighs and his chin on his clasped hands. This is Chas' 'serious talk' pose and John knows, in that moment, he's in for it. Chas was always the responsible one, even now. 'Don't climb up that tree, John', 'don't smoke that, John', "be  _careful_ , John". 

"I need'a know this time if things get bad. Otherwise you can't be livin' on yer own. You shouldn't be livin' on yer own now, damn it, you stubborn bastard," he adds as an afterthought before continuing, "An' pills. You need'a be on 'em. We gotta get you a shrink - proper one, too."

John sits up so fast it makes his head spin. He groans, forcing his exhausted body to seem strong in front of his mate, "I don't need to talk to some knob-head who's only gonna tell me that demons aren't real and that I'm makin' all this up as a way to cope. No matter what bullshit they spew at me, Chas, Astra is still goin' t'be in Hell. A little girl - tortured all her life here, never seen the damn sun or bleedin' grass - and now livin' out the rest of eternity tortured in Hell. Because of me and my fuckin' stupidity. No amount of therapy or pills will fix that."

Chas swallows, sitting back in the chair. John was tearing up, anger afire in his eyes, guilt gripping and twisting his innards so that his mouth upturned into a grimace of agony. His accent grew heavier with his increasing distress, "An' I- fuck, forgive me for slitting my wrists open, but I ain't find no other way yet to make it to Hell to try an' find her soul.

That was a lie. John is selfish - he would always be a selfish bastard no matter the bullshit he said to make himself believe he was doing a brave and righteous thing. He had slit his wrists to feel the pain, to try and imagine what Astra was feeling. He had only called for help when it dawned on him that going to Hell using this method was a one-way ticket. John Constantine was nothing but a selfish coward and the fact he  _couldn't even kill himself_ (and damn himself to Hell where he belonged) made him want to kill himself even more. But, of course, he knew he'd end up back at an Emergency Room. Or worse, another Asylum. The cycle was vicious and it consumed him when the alcohol didn't. A drunk, a failure, and responsible for the torture of a kid - father and son had become so familiar despite his intense resistance of the idea. His father's words ring in his ears, 'You'll never be shit. You'll always be a little demon, draggin' other people down an' killin' 'em along the way. It was a blessin' you killed yer mother when you did. You would'a ruined her by now'.

John comes out of his own circle of self-hatred to the feeling arms around him and Chas' cheap cologne filling his nostrils. He wonders, with a breath of panic, how long Chas has been hugging him. He must have looked like he needed it.

John pulls back from the other man for a moment and stares in wonder at the wet patch on his shirt. It's only when he tastes salt that he realises he's been crying. 

"You'w're starting to scratch at yer arms," Chas explains.

"Chas?" John asks. He can't remember anything that happened outside his head after mentioning Astra, he can't remember if they had agreed on a shrink or pills or even if Chas had said anything in reply.

"Mm?"

"Stay the night."

John can feel the other chuckle, "Mate, of course m'gonna. S'why I brought an ugly bloody 'man-bag'."

**Author's Note:**

> more to come soon, hopefully. It will get darker with flashbacks to John's time inside Ravenscar, just a heads up.


End file.
